


Routine

by bela013



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 04:13:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bela013/pseuds/bela013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maester Cressen haven't perished in his failed attempt at murder, and is faced with an unsettling predicament.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Routine

It all felt like a nightmare, no matter how melodious was her laughter, or how sweet was her smile. He knew what she was, and what she hid behind such homely face. No matter how many times he tried to sent her away, she would come back, care for him, and even force feed him if she was around time that the food arrived.

Stannis, his little boy, now a king, said nothing of the fact, and if the strange glint is his eyes didn't change since he was a boy, I'd say he was pleased by the turn of events. His Onion Knight limited himself in trowing me pitiful glances, but never stepping up and offering a hand. No, that was her task, not only to offer a hand, but to push her red self into my ways, claiming to be helping me, while I knew that she was all but slowly killing me.

'Should you be trying to stand?' she made her way to him, ignoring his scowl, and kindly pushing him back to his bed, destroying the work of an afternoon in mere seconds.

'Who are you to tell me what to do, little girl?' yes, a girl with a round face and soft curls, a long red dress and a faint smell of apples around her, nothing but a naughty girl, who never bothered to learn how to behave.

'Only you to make me feel young again, Maester Cressen' and the smile she gave me for that, would make the gloomiest man to smile back to her, but not me, for I knew what laid behind all that sweet demure. Her lips grassed his brow in tender kiss as she sat by his side on the bed.

This was practically all about his daily routine, since that night, in which he tried to kill her. He would wake up, and there she would be, looking like she hasn't slept a wink, still smelling of burned wood, with a thin layer of dew in her shinny hair, just as if she had stayed outside waiting for the sun to come up, as still as dying grass beneath her feet.

It was with an surprising devotion that she would care for him, in imposing herself when he tried to change his clothes, tugging them out of him, without a spare though for his modesty, or when she would cool down his tea for him. As the days passed, he prayed for the Mother, begging for mercy, for the Father, asking for strength, and to the Stranger, asking for advice in such twisted hour. He was lost upon his actions, and each passing day, he feared for his sanity as well for his life, because there was no way that he could claim his hatred towards her for much longer.

But none of that compared to what she could still do, to what really messed with his head. The way her fingers brushed his chin, something between caressing and clawing him. It was when he could almost see her mask spilling off, of where the woman and the priestess met, leaving behind the girl that he saw her as, and kissing him as the woman who traveled half the world by herself.

There was an almost burning feeling when her body poised itself on my lap, tangling thick tights around my once permanently sore hips, which felt better after each mid morning by her side. A tired grown worked out of his mouth as her own hips sway above him. It wasn't in a taunt that she moved, since it had been more than a month that she took up this as her private past time, and she had to leave me in misery, it was a way for her own pleasure too, for the more she moved, the more her head tilted backwards, exposing the tender flesh of her neck to me. Maybe, if I were a younger man, I'd bite her skin, leave my mark on her, but I'm just an tired old goat now, and all I could do was bury my head in the curve of her neck or in the swell of her full breasts, and it was still enough, since she purred at every time my beard rubbed into her.

There wasn't the faintest of logic in what they did, there no need for it. But he still prayed for sanity, while his nose was buried in a red wave of hair, with dew in his skin and the smell of burned wood filling his lungs. Or for clarity as she rested her head on his shoulders, willing herself to come down from her silent climax, whispering foreigner words into his ear, like one might do to a lover.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this came from.


End file.
